Chapter 30
Thirty
Harry, meanwhile, was not having a very easy time of it.
Yesterday, she had managed some sleep and had the thought to read the rest of Macbeth.
Of course, the only interesting character kills herself offstage.
Pity how many committed suicide in plays.
So foolish. Perhaps it was just a useful mechanism for the playwright to get rid of untidy people.
And so many of the untidy people seemed to be women.
Afterwards, she had been able to do some very productive thinking about coprimes.
In bed that night, she pulled up her nightdress and made do with her left hand. In every way, her left hand was inferior to her right hand. She tried to imagine it as Thomas’ left hand, and she was surprised when she climaxed more quickly with that thought in her head.
But today she thought it very unfortunate that just as she had learned to use her right hand in the most marvelous way, it had been broken. And then the man who had taught her to use that hand had run off, taking his left hand and his tongue with him. It was really very unfair.
And it was clear something had been ruined. She didn’t understand what had been ruined. She didn’t understand how, exactly. But there had been something very fine and very good, and now it was broken. Like a whisky glass. Or her hand.
She was working very hard at writing some notes with her left hand—what would happen if one and only one of the bases was divisible by the exponent in question?
—but it was slow going. How did Thomas write so beautifully with his left hand?
Of course, she need not write. She could still think and read, but she was unaccountably distracted.
She threw her pen down in frustration and wandered out of her aerie. She would get some coffee.
As she came down the imperial staircase, she heard Whitson speaking to someone in the hall. It must be the doctor, come to check her hand. They might take a walk on the grounds.
“Alasdair!” she called out as she rounded the landing and hurtled down the last half-flight of stairs.
She was mistaken. Whitson was talking to a woman. At first, she thought it was Mama Katie because the woman had the same short stature. However, Harry had received no letter from her stepmother, arranging a visit. And this woman had a larger bosom. And auburn hair.
Whitson said, “Lady Drake, Miss Hope Dunbar, daughter of his lordship’s neighbor, Mr. Frederick Dunbar.”
The woman, more a girl really, curtsied as Harry came forwards.
“Your father and mother called on us many months ago,” Harry said. “You were not in the country then but in town.” She studied the young woman.
“Yes, my lady. I should have called on you before this, but—”
Harry cut her off by waving her bandaged hand. “Would you like coffee or tea? I was going to have coffee, but the water might as well be heated for tea, too. Whitson?”
Miss Hope Dunbar looked at Whitson. Whitson nodded and said in a low voice, “Please follow my ladyship and stay for some refreshment. Do not be startled.”
Harry strolled into the largest of the drawing rooms, the one with the best view of the drive. She might be able to see Octavius coming. Harry positioned herself in a chair pointed towards the windows. She then remembered her early lessons from Mama Katie and stood and said, “Please do sit down.”
They discussed the weather. The safest of all topics, Mama Katie always said.
Miss Dunbar asked about Harry’s hand. “Just a whisky accident,” Harry cheerfully explained.
Speaking of Scotland, had Miss Dunbar read Macbeth?
Quite a dark story, didn’t she think? The lord and lady, both with overweening ambition?
And to have the best character, the lady, kill herself?
Did Miss Dunbar find that tragic or realistic?
They discussed Miss Dunbar’s age. She was only four years younger than Lady Drake. Really? Harry felt that she, Harry, must be heaps older than Miss Dunbar. Perhaps because she was a married woman.
The conversation was limping, at best. Miss Dunbar was far too polite. Harry was not in a good enough mood to make an effort. She could not remember what had possessed her to ask Miss Dunbar to stay for tea. And where was her own coffee?
Just then Whitson came in with a large tray with coffee and tea and chocolate. Harry was surprised Miss Dunbar took chocolate instead.
“Why did you ask for tea, then?”
“I didn’t ask for anyth—” Miss Dunbar started, but Harry saw a look pass between her and Whitson, and Miss Dunbar cut herself off.
Miss Dunbar coughed a little. “I am sorry to have missed Lord Drake.”
“Yes, it’s too bad he isn’t here. He could stay and talk to you, and I could go back to work. He is really much more entertaining than I am.”
“I did not know I was interrupting your work.” Miss Dunbar put her cup back in her saucer and started to rise. “I do apologize, Lady Drake—”
“No, no, finish your chocolate, I beg you.” Harry thought the I beg you a rather fine embellishment.
As Miss Dunbar sipped her chocolate with lowered eyes, Harry examined her visitor carefully. She leaned forwards.
“Now that I see you, I’m surprised Lord Drake didn’t marry you. He has quite an idée fixe about redheaded women, you know. And you have very good breasts. And you seem like you would have sense.”
Miss Dunbar choked suddenly, and her cup clattered onto her saucer. Whitson sprang forwards to assist her and provide a napkin for the errant drops of chocolate that had erupted from the cup.
“Except you don’t know your own mind about tea versus chocolate,” Harry added.
“I didn’t ask for tea—” Miss Dunbar stood, and Harry thought she might be upset. She was flushed. “Excuse me, my lady, I have another engagement. One that is pressing.”
Whitson ushered Miss Dunbar out into the hall.
He returned to retrieve the tray. His brows were knitted together.
Harry realized she had behaved badly. She caught his arm.
“Whitson, please don’t tell Tommy what I said—I mean, Lord Drake.
I forgot he needed such a lot of money, and perhaps Miss Dunbar’s father doesn’t really have that much.
Of course, he would have rather married her.
I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings by lording it over her that I was married and she was not— Well, that’s not true, maybe I did.
But I tried to make up for it by complimenting her breasts, you see?
But, of course, I am much more worried about his finding out I hurt her feelings than I am about hurting her feelings. ”
Whitson said stiffly, “I am not in the habit of repeating private family conversations to anyone.”
Harry released his arm. “Of course.”
Several hours passed before Octavius and his rider could be seen coming up the drive. By then, Harry had long since fled to her aerie and was doggedly trying to make her left hand do what she wanted with a pen.